


Until the End of my Days

by chervilspotatoes



Category: Merlin (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grateful John, Happy Ending, Heroic John, Heroic Sherlock, John is a dick, John is a good man, King John, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Prince John - Freeform, Protective Greg, Sad Sherlock, Servant Sherlock, Sorcerer Sherlock, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Stubborn Sherlock, Swooning Sherlock, Teenlock, Trust, but tries to make up for it, but tries to make up for it too, sherlock is a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-15 04:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 20,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4592559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chervilspotatoes/pseuds/chervilspotatoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock learns to embrace his destiny as Prince John's protector, but soon realizes he is in love with the unavailable prince. However, this knowledge does not stop him from staying by John's side as John becomes king and faces unforeseen circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> My first long fic. Feedback is welcome, but please be gentle as I'm testing my own waters here.

Ealdor wasn’t a big city. It wasn’t grand, filled with palaces and fine stonework and personal servants. There was one line of wooden and straw houses where the residents tried their hardest to put food in their bellies. Within Ealdor were two brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock. Mycroft and Sherlock possessed both magic and intelligence in spades, neither of which were common, though only the former was illegal. 

Mycroft grew out of Ealdor in his teens and left his brother, six years his junior, in the care of a kindly neighbor with a dodgy hip. Mrs. Hudson was very fond of Sherlock, having known him and of his magical ability for years. 

Right before Mycroft left Ealdor, he turned to his brother and tried to have a serious conversation with the petulant twelve year old. “Sherlock, there is a prince in Camelot that needs your help. It is your duty to find him and help him and be with him all his life.”

“Prince John?” Sherlock answered. “And Camelot? How am I to help him there? That’s where the King is, there is no magic there!”

“You have a brain, brother,” retorted Mycroft with a smarmy smile. “Use it.”

Sherlock was hurt by this comment, but latched onto a different train of thought instead. “Mycroft, when will you be back?”

“I don’t think I’ll see you for a very long while, Sherlock,” said Mycroft in a softer tone. “But John is your destiny. In a couple years, he will need you very much. Greg Lestrade, part of the investigative force, will help you. And you must be there for him, for he will be a great king.”

Mycroft turned to leave and, with his back still turned, said softly, “Also, your loss would break my heart.” Sherlock’s lower lip started to wobble and his vision blurred. The lump in his throat prevented him from saying anything else to his brother, as he would not let out the sob that wanted to break forth. As Mycroft’s footsteps faded away, Sherlock closed the door to the house he shared with Mrs. Hudson and leaned against it. 

Sherlock’s parents were both dead, had been for years, and Mycroft was the only family Sherlock had ever known. Now he was gone, and Sherlock felt like someone had bashed all his internal organs to pieces. He didn’t care about John, not now. He cared about his own sorrow and pain from having his life completely changed and having no control over any of it.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock had thrown himself into study at that point. He absorbed everything, building in his mind palace wings on magic and medicine and astronomy. He wanted to know it all, so he was frequently gone from Ealdor. Even being so young, he did not fear the roads. His grasp of his own innate magic grew as he matured a little over the next three years. (Sherlock never abandoned Mrs. Hudson to destitution, he always left rakes, brooms, or spoons working in his short absences. The house was a short distance from its neighbors, so it was safe for him to practice magic at home.) 

At Mrs. Hudson’s prodding, Sherlock did make the journey to Camelot, alone, as was his wont. After Mycroft left, he never sought out the company of others and did not have any friends, just people he knew entirely too much about who either strongly disliked or hated him. 

Upon arriving in Camelot, there was a grand procession going on, a short blond teen was flanked by men in armor and red capes as they all moved through the square. Sherlock approached them, only to find his way blocked by one of the men Sherlock now recognized as knights. 

“Prince John is not a public spectacle,” said the knight.

“Oh really?,” retorted Sherlock. “You sure are making him into one, are you sure he is fit to go outside in the square if he requires six guards around him to do so?”

“Four,” interrupted John. “Can you not count?”

“No, six,” said Sherlock shortly. “The one in the bakery window is elementary to spot and the one buying potatoes-“ Sherlock snorted incredulously “-is your father even trying?”

“How do you know it was my father’s behest?” inquired John.

“Because I can tell by the callouses on your hands that you are a frequent swordsman, frankly better than the men who are supposed to be guarding you, and you stand apart from them when you walk, meaning you are not close to them, you don’t really want them there, ergo why are they there? Well what other option is there other than your overprotective father fearing your assassination since you are his only possible choice for heir and your old nursingmaid has expressed concerns about your safety?”

“Actually, it’s one of the maids who put that glorious idea in my father’s head,” said John confusedly. “But who are you?”

Sherlock is saved from answering by a charging knight, who chased the unarmed teen through the square. John followed after them, shouting for the knight to stop before the curly haired boy gets hurt.

The knight brings Sherlock to John with a hand in the front of his shirt. “The only way he could have known those things, sir, is if he is a spy.”

“Nonsense!” replied John. “He’s not a spy, he’s a great asset. Unhand him and take him to Gregory for training. He’s young, even if he is a spy I’m sure he could be persuaded to change his ways.”

So Sherlock went into the heart of all that was against magic to protect the prince using magic. Sherlock hoped Gregory would be helpful, as Mycroft made Sherlock’s destiny sound so hard and so huge Sherlock didn’t think he could bear it.


	2. In Which Greg is Met and John is Saved

The knight, called Anderson as Sherlock learned, was skeptical of Sherlock and reluctantly took him to the head of the investigative force, the Greg Lestrade Mycroft had told Sherlock of three years before. Greg was an affable older man, who was very accomplished, having managed to become both a physician and a knight, making him qualified to investigate just about anything. 

Leaving Sherlock at the door, Anderson snarled one last “And if Prince John or the safety of this land is in any way what you mean to tear down, you will have to answer to me.” Privately Sherlock thought he would have no trouble defeating Anderson, but he was apprehensive about meeting Greg and so turned away without comment.

Upon opening the door, Greg was immediately visible on the second story that ringed the room and housed bookshelves, accessible by a ladder on the other side of the room from Sherlock and regrettably a fair distance from Greg as well. Startled upon Sherlock’s sudden entry, as he had been trying to block out Anderson and get this introduction over with, Greg’s thighs hit the low balcony and he tumbled backward, flipping over the edge in a manner that could only be detrimental to the health of the aged man. 

Without much conscious thought, Sherlock willed the bed to move under Greg to cushion his fall, his ice blue eyes flashing momentarily gold as his magic was used. Right after Greg’s safe landing on the bed, Sherlock felt dread fill him. It was already over, someone in Camelot knew he had magic and he would die. No matter that it was used only to save a stranger, the law was the law and there was no mercy. 

To Sherlock’s surprise, Greg’s first phrase wasn’t about his magic at all. “You must be Sherlock. Mycroft said you would be coming.”

“Yes, and you must be Greg,” said Sherlock, wanting to get past this part and move to the part where the guards were called to shackle him in irons. Probably, with Sherlock’s luck, Anderson would be among them and would gloat the entire time. 

“Yes. And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, but be careful with your gift. Not everyone feels the same way about magic as I do,” stated Greg as he pushed himself off his bed. “And thank you by the way. But you’re putting the bed back.”

A flash of gold eyes later, the bed was back. “I meant move it manually,” sighed Greg, “but whatever. Let me show you to your room.”

Sherlock’s room had a low bed and a chest in which to put his things. As Sherlock unpacked his sparse possessions, he thought about Greg and John. But mostly John. John had been the only person other than Mycroft who hadn’t derided Sherlock for what he could see. Sherlock felt warm inside at that thought. His destiny was John, and John wasn’t terrible. John wasn’t an idiot. 

“Sherlock!” boomed Greg’s voice. “I am required to be present at the king’s meals, especially this one. There is a feast and lots of visiting nobility there. As my physician’s assistant, you’re to accompany me. Now hurry up!”

Sherlock’s stomach made a strange flopping sensation at the thought of the feast—whether at the thought of all the people he would be forced to keep company with or at the thought of seeing John again Sherlock wasn’t sure. He wrapped his scarf around his neck and closed his chest.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The feast was boring. Sherlock didn’t know what he expected but it wasn’t a multitude of finely dressed people mostly ignoring everyone but their single conversation partner and languidly eating mountains of food. When entertainment was called for, a woman who was said to be a bewitching singer was brought forth. 

Irene was her name, and by the look of things she was found to be universally attractive with her milky smooth skin and dark hair. Even John was looking at her like he wouldn’t mind having her present every time he ate. When she opened her mouth to sing, everyone’s eyes drooped suspiciously, almost in unison. She was enchanting them all, all the men were succumbing to something malicious, even Greg at Sherlock’s side. Bewitching singer indeed.

Feeling it prudent to see what she intended to do with a roomful of sleepy men, Sherlock feigned droopy eyes as well. While she continued to sing, she drew a short spear from the folds of her dress and aimed it at the prince. 

Panicking, Sherlock leaped into action, using a small burst of magic to get to John before the spear could get him. Sherlock hit the side of his ornamented chair and John went tumbling out of it. John landed on the floor with a soft thump when his head impacted almost immediately followed by the landing Sherlock, who had hands on either side of John’s face and his thighs pressing into John’s hips. Their groins were quite firmly in contact. Dimly Sherlock registered the twang of the spear hitting the wall where John used to be, the cessation of Irene’s song, and her fleeing departure from the room. What he was more concerned about was his own awareness of John’s firm chest beneath his, John’s groin, John’s hair, and suddenly all the blood in his body surged to his own groin. Sherlock immediately scrambled up, stuttering apologies for John’s head.

John’s father, Uther, looked appraisingly at Sherlock, then at the spear in the wall. “I can say I would rather have a bump on the head than a spear in my breast,” said John warmly. “Thank you Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave a deferential nod to John as Uther said, “Yes, of course. Thank you Sherlock. I’ve been looking for a good servant for John and I think you just might be it. Your quick reflexes could prove valuable, especially if they are paired with a strong work ethic.”

Seeing his chance to get close to John (only because it was his destiny, Sherlock tried to convince himself), Sherlock said clearly, “I would be honored to be servant to Prince John and would perform whatever he would require of me.” Sherlock was floored by how true that statement was. He felt so drawn to John, and he could only speculate it to be because of their shared destiny. He knew, already, he would walk across fire to reach John, be tortured to save John, die to redeem John. 

But nothing will ever come of it, a voice in Sherlock’s head whispered. Even if he did by some miracle love you, you still have magic. And even if he accepts that, you are still male. A prince cannot be bound to a man. He must carry on a bloodline, and for that he requires a woman.

As everyone cheered around him for his heroic act, Sherlock thought, “The worst of that is, he could never love me. Not me. But that doesn’t mean I can’t love him the best I can. Until the end of my days.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just about all the groundwork is laid now.


	3. In Which Sherlock Settles In

Greg took Sherlock to meet James, the king’s ward, who had been present at the feast, but did not converse with Sherlock. Everyone wanted to speak with Sherlock on the way there, it was very uncomfortable and Sherlock felt out of place and wrong footed. He was able to put them off, but he was past ready to retreat to his room and burrow under the blankets by the time he got to James’s door.

James said Sherlock could come in in a sweet, lilting voice. Sherlock was offered a seat, which he declined. “So,” began James conversationally, “Johnny required some help at the feast tonight.”

“Yes,” replied Sherlock, tired of having this conversation again, “and I was happy to help my prince.”

James’s mouth quirked at Sherlock’s use of my and he continued sweetly, “Have you met Mary, my half-sister? She is a servant here too. Maybe she will be more to your liking than Lady Irene.”

“As long as she does not draw spears on the royal family, I am sure I will like her more than Lady Irene.” Sherlock stowed that information away. Irene was a lady and there was another creature somewhat like James. There was nothing explicitly wrong with James that Sherlok could pinpoint, it was more of a general feeling of being off in his presence or like a joke was being laughed at but no one had informed Sherlock of the punchline. 

“Well I must leave you to your rest,” said Sherlock, wanting to get away from the short male an estimated three years older than Sherlock with dark, slick hair and an amused look on his face. As Sherlock was reaching for the door handle, a petite blonde woman about James’s age walked in. Sherlock inwardly groaned. This must be the famed Mary. Maybe he could learn why James was the king’s ward and his half-sister a mere servant.

Sadly, that conversation went eerily similar to the one with only James and Sherlock in the room with no new information about their relationship. Sherlock shook his head and dismissed his feelings of something not being right. Of course something wasn’t right. He wasn’t in bed, instead he had to interact with a frankly ridiculous amount of people today.

The castle was large, and after wandering corridors for a while trying to find how to get to Greg’s rooms, Sherlock instead ran into John just going to his chambers to retire. John saw him and smiled. “Thanks again Sherlock. I usually wake at dawn, and I’ll be training all day tomorrow so I will need my armor laid out and polished. You also put it on me, so if you don’t know how it goes, ask Greg. Good night.” The door closed promptly afterward. 

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock thought. “You are not friends. He is exceptionally kind, but he is not your friend. You do things for him and he pays you. Well, his father pays you.”  
Turning on his heel, Sherlock blindly walked forward until he reached Greg’s door, and cemented the way to John’s chambers in his head.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Being John’s servant was hard. People expected him to know so many things he had never been exposed to in Ealdor—how armor was worn, what knights did when they trained (as it was Sherlock’s job to clean all the swords and shields and maces and other implements they used), how to use a sword passably well (Sherlock had never learned. His magic was far more effective than any weaponry.), and John had him working for over fourteen hours every day. It didn’t help that Greg also called on Sherlock’s time to make poultices, potions, gather herbs, and do random errands. 

Sherlock was worn ragged by the end of two weeks, by which time he just felt sad and lonely, surrounded by people all day and feeling no connection to any of them. He didn’t cry but he did sulk in his bed for a couple hours. He missed Mrs. Hudson, he missed Mycroft, he missed the instant connection he had had with John but hadn’t been able to rekindle. Maybe that was just John being John and not John being interested in Sherlock. Sherlock had felt so alive under his attention but now John barely spoke to him unless it was to issue another task for him to do. He supposed it was a typical master/servant relationship and cursed his heart for getting his hopes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will have another time lapse. Do people like what I'm doing?


	4. In Which John Alienates Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same premise as Season 1 Episode 2 of Merlin, but hopefully changed enough to make it interesting. They won't all go in order like this, I just needed a 'case' for them.

One month after Sherlock arrived in Camelot, the annual tournament for the knights was being held. John had been training for hours every day, and indirectly, this meant Sherlock was training too. He was certainly more fit than he had been a month ago, and he felt it in his muscles every night. Greg was also tiring his brain, encouraging him to better control and use his magic and teaching him medicine. 

The night before the tournament began, knights from all over the kingdom came to demonstrate their valor. Sherlock wasn’t much looking forward to it, as it only meant more work for him. Somehow, being John’s servant meant whenever important people came to visit, Sherlock was their servant also. But of course, John was not to be compromised, so all the other people infringed on what little time Sherlock had where he was not doing someone’s bidding.

He was going around to all the knights’ chambers, seeing if they needed anything and hoping they didn’t so he could go to bed, when he encountered Knight Valiant. The knight was speaking to his shield in hushed tones and the shield appeared to be answering, but not in words. It emitted hisses that the knight seemed to understand. Sherlock shrunk behind the door and watched, shifting until he could see four snakes protruding from the metal of the shield. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. It didn’t take Sherlock’s genius to realize that the snakes in the shield were poisonous and he was going to use that advantage to win the tournament. Sherlock crept away from the door and made a beeline for John’s room.

Sherlock entered and gently shook John’s shoulder. John grunted and sat up. “What are you doing in here, Sherlock? I’m trying to sleep, tomorrow’s an important day!”

“I know, I had to tell you what I saw.”

John made a hand motion that Sherlock assumed meant carry on, so Sherlock continued, “I just came from Knight Valiant’s chambers, to see if there was anything he needed before I retired, when I saw his shield. John, there are enchanted snakes in it and he plans to use the snakes to help him win the tournament!”

John, however, did not appear impressed. “You came here to tell me of an illusion borne of sleep deprivation, slander against one of Camelot’s knights, and assigned a plan to him based on that illusion, when he has done nothing wrong.”

“But I heard hissing, John—“

“You heard nothing Sherlock. And don’t call me John. I am your prince and will one day be your king.”

Feeling crushed, Sherlock mutely nodded and exited John’s—no, Your Majesty’s—chambers. Prince John didn’t trust him. He didn’t think Sherlock’s opinions and words were worth anything. If John didn’t trust him, why was he allowed to be by the prince’s side all day, to give him food, to wake him up and put him to bed, to dress him and ready his weapons? “You’re his machine,” Sherlock’s mind answered. “You fulfill a purpose, he owns you, and he is entirely uninterested in anything beyond that purpose. You are not to go outside the boundaries of your job. Your job is to be a machine for your prince.”

Sherlock slept fitfully that night with a heavy heart.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next morning Sherlock dressed silently and went to dress his prince. What he usually took a kind of guilty pleasure held no such appeal today. His Majesty’s golden skin and muscular frame housed a cruel man who somehow was still gripping and twisting Sherlock around by the heart. 

“Sherlock, I may have been a bit harsh last night, it was the middle of the night and I was worried, I still am, about today.”

“It’s fine, Your Majesty,” said Sherlock stiffly. “I won’t overstep again. You’re all ready to go now. Best of luck.” And Sherlock turned and left, missing the clenching of the prince’s jaw.

Sherlock didn’t find the tournament entertaining at all. It was clear before they started who would do well and who would not. Sherlock watched dispassionately as the worst players were weeded out all morning. When Knight Valiant’s first round came, Sherlock wanted to go hide in shame. He knew what was going to happen, but he was powerless to save the knight’s opponent, a Knight Edwin. As Edwin fell dead to the floor, the crowd was surprised but no less excited to see more. Sherlock felt sick. Not every fight was to the death, but Valiant’s always would be.

The preliminary rounds had been painstakingly finished by the day’s end, with Prince John having won the match he participated in. The following day two more opponents of Valiant were dead and Greg was suspicious. He examined the bodies and presented his findings to Sherlock first. “See here, these two bites on the neck? They appear to be from a snake, but there would have been no snakes in the ring. He also died of poison, as did the others.”

Sherlock told Greg what he had seen and what Prince John’s reaction to the information had been. Greg was surprised. “But he goes against Valiant tomorrow in the final! What is he thinking?”

“He’s thinking with his pride,” Sherlock stated. Greg nodded sagely. “You are really quite brilliant, Sherlock. I will go and deliver my findings to him. Maybe he will listen to me.” Sherlock doubted it.

Prince John did not, in fact, withdraw from the match with Greg’s input. Instead, he spouted some tripe as “What kind of a leader would I be if I withdrew from a match at the hint of danger? Besides, his shield looks like a shield to me.”

The third day Greg urged Sherlock to use his magic to save Prince John again. “But all the people, Greg! I wouldn’t know what to do without being caught!”

“You have a good head on your shoulders and good instincts to match. It’ll come to you,” Greg reassured him.

The fight was long between Valiant and Prince John. Sherlock wracked his brain trying to think of how to kill the snakes from afar before thinking, “Prince John has a sword. If I can make them come out before they’re ready to make a kill, His Majesty can kill them himself.” Now that Sherlock knew how to do. And the prince did love waving about his sword.  
Sherlock’s eyes flashed gold momentarily as he made the snakes in Valiant’s shield manifest. Everyone was surprised, even Valiant, who had not finished the fight yet. His Majesty reacted well and quickly. After a second’s pause, he cleanly snipped off all four snake heads. The crowd was outraged at the treachery against their prince and lauded Prince John for his bravery in defeating the magical snakes and all his other opponents, winning the match.

Sherlock slipped to Prince John’s tent to help him with his weapons. “Congratulations,” Sherlock offered upon his entrance. 

“You were right and I shouldn’t have doubted you,” opened John. “I will take more heed to your advice in future.”

Sherlock nodded, thinking, “It only took three dead important people, absolute proof, and a moment of glory before you remembered what your machine said. And that was very cleverly worded to not contain the phrase ‘I’m sorry.’ Because he isn’t. He isn’t sorry at all. You’re just more useful now.”

Prince John was mollified, thinking that patch was all behind them and he and Sherlock could go back to how they were before. This all had just been bad timing and too little sleep and forethought.


	5. In Which John and Sherlock Open Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the misunderstanding arc. Story borrows some elements from Merlin Season 1 Episode 11.

Prince John, Sherlock, and a selection of knights were patrolling an area of the forest around Camelot on King Uther’s orders one morning just less than a week after Knight Valiant’s demise. Prince John had been tetchy for much of this time, and the tension between he and Sherlock was almost palpable. Sherlock tried to pretend he didn’t find a sick pleasure in His Majesty’s discomfort around him almost as much as he pretended it didn’t make him feel diseased inside.

Movement was seen through the trees close to Sherlock, and Sherlock peered through the leaves to see a beautiful white creature in profile. It was obviously a unicorn, as the sculpted creamy horn atop its head could attest. Its flanks were healthy and shone with light sweat and dappled sunlight. Its tan mane flicked as the unicorn turned its head to lock eyes with Sherlock and stare at him knowingly.

An arrow whizzed through the air at it and struck the beautiful creature in the neck. Sherlock had a sickening feeling he knew exactly who had shot the arrow and mortally wounded the gorgeous unicorn. Sherlock watched Prince John approach the unicorn, lowering his bow and pulling out his knife. 

Sherlock couldn’t watch as the magical creature was gutted for pleasure, he really couldn’t. He scrambled back through the foliage a safe distance away and sat down, drawing his knees up around his head so he wouldn’t have to hear.

His Majesty emerged a short while later bearing the unicorn’s horn. Apparently it hadn’t been gutted. Small mercies. “Now we can go back to Camelot with a present for my father,” Prince John proclaimed. “And perhaps it does something, magical things often do.”

The ride back to Camelot on horseback was long for both the prince and his servant. “What does Sherlock want from me?” the prince wondered. “No matter what I do it’s wrong. I show valor, it agitates him or makes him sick, I apologize, it makes him angry, I don’t apologize, it makes him passive aggressive. At least Father always likes rare valuable things.”

Uther did like the horn, putting it in the vaults under the castle and congratulating his son on the kill. Sherlock asked Greg that night if unicorn horns had any special powers, and Greg said they did not, but there was a price for killing one.

What that price was was revealed the following morning, when all the wells in Camelot were dry. A letter was also found on the floor before the castle addressed to the prince, so Sherlock took it to him with trepidation. Prince John read it aloud to Sherlock and himself. “In the place where the unicorn was killed can you make amends for its passing. Heed this note, as dry wells are not the only calamity I can bring upon Camelot.”

Two knights, Sherlock, and Prince John returned to the place that yesterday held such joy for three of them, but now held only foreboding for them all. A man emerged, with a long white beard to his naval, who beckoned and said in a nasally voice, “Sherlock and the prince, with me. I vow to you I will not hurt them.”

So the trio moved a short distance away from the knights, where the man Sherlock knew and the prince guessed to be a sorcerer began to speak again. “John, you have committed a great crime. A unicorn is what pure souls become when they pass on. They are blameless and sacred creatures. Now that one has been taken from the earth, there is an imbalance in the world that must be righted. Fortunately, the prime candidate is right before you, for behold his soul glows with purity of intent.” He uttered a short incantation and while the prince’s chest remained unchanged, both the man’s and Sherlock’s began to glow. Sherlock and his prince both stared at Sherlock’s chest, which seemed to emit a blue white glow. “Pure souls are rare, and as I am immortal, only one choice remains. John, to atone for killing the unicorn, you must make a new one in its place. Kill Sherlock.”

“No!” exclaimed the prince. “No, Sherlock is innocent.”

“For all of Camelot’s safety, John. How can you say the life of a serving boy is worth more than the thousands in Camelot?”

“Your Majesty, you must,” Sherlock intoned softly, lifting the sword that hung limply in the prince’s hand and pointing the blade at his own chest.

“No,” John stated definitively, letting the sword fall to the ground. “Killing another will not atone for killing the first innocent! There must be another way! You’re lying to me! And even if you aren’t, not Sherlock.”

“Your price is paid. You have learned your lesson. Beware of innocents, John. Protect them. Let the unicorn be the only blood on your hands. And that blood is now purged,” the sorcerer stated before vanishing into nothingness. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” the prince said. 

“All of Camelot, for me,” replied Sherlock. “Why?”

“You’re my friend. And I’m sorry.”

“John,” whispered Sherlock breathlessly.

“There we go,” said John, trying to lighten the mood and failing. “Is that what you wanted, the I’m sorry? Or the formal declaration? The drama?”

“I didn’t think you were sorry. Or that you valued me,” Sherlock finally said, rubbed raw and tired of hiding.

“I thought fixing the problem went a lot farther than the words,” spoken in a smooth, matter of fact voice. 

“It does,” agreed Sherlock. “I’m sorry.”

And so the return to Camelot saw the return also of water to the wells and joy to the hearts of John and Sherlock, where Sherlock again basked in the shadow of his courageous prince.


	6. In Which Sherlock is in Peril

Sometimes when Sherlock was all alone he made a break for himself. If there was a lot of a repetitive task to be done, such as polishing a sword or cleaning a floor, he enchanted implements to do it for him. On one such occasion, the broom was enchanted to sweep the floor of the armory while two separate polishing cloths were working on two separate swords. Even with the enchantments going, he would be here for hours. He thought John didn’t realize he only had twenty-four hours in his days, that servants didn’t get a day inside a day or that the time he spent with John actually counted as part of his day. All too often, John would assign a full day’s work just before he retired and expect it done when Sherlock came to wake him.

So Sherlock didn’t sleep much. He didn’t sleep much back in Ealdor either, but many of the tasks he did as John’s servant weren’t the same as he did in Ealdor. With Mrs. Hudson, he was exercising his brain, expanding himself, which tasks were easier to defy sleep for. Here, he was unable to do so to the same degree. He tried, but then his violin playing suffered. He had not had time to play since he had come to Camelot.

He felt comfortable leaving his enchantments in place because the castle was very empty at this time of night. Just to be safe, he set a time limit on their work. He slipped away to his room, where he grabbed his violin and bow and ducked quietly out again without waking Greg. 

Sherlock walked a moderate distance from the castle and tucked his beloved instrument under his chin. The first note produced when he applied his bow seemed shockingly loud to him in the darkness, but after tuning the strings he was ready and accustomed to the sound. Sherlock had always been a fantastic composer, and this skill was evident now in how he played. He mused on his life in Camelot, on John, on his destiny, on his feelings on the entire affair. Music had always been how he absorbed and made sense of his emotions and of his life. It’s like his brain realigned itself with his bow instead of being a confused mess.

Sherlock soon found he was composing a piece about John. It sounded like gallantry and swagger, but he couldn’t keep his own influence on John from the piece. His influence was melancholy and brooding and made the beautiful swells of John’s success and graces seem like half a failure. Sherlock tried hard to write himself out of John’s song, and was moderately successful. However, by this time, it was midmorning.

Sherlock hurried to his room and quickly tucked his violin back away. He tousled his curls and grabbed a piece of bread to eat as he hurried to John’s chamber. John was still there, late for whatever he was doing this morning—oh yes, training with the knights. 

“Sherlock,” said John sharply. “Where were you? Greg told me you were at the tavern, but you don’t seem to be like a tavern going person.”

“The-the-.”

“Oh it really was the tavern then? Wonderful. Hope you can still dress me with your head all foggy with drink.” And John stood and raised his arms in expectation of being dressed. Sherlock ignored the jolt in his groin-it would be so easy to undress John instead of dress him-and lowered his chest armor over John’s head. Not that Sherlock had never seen John naked before-it was he who drew the prince’s baths after all-but John always put on and took off his own underthings.

Later that day, Sherlock runs into Jim. He has been avoiding Mary and Jim for weeks, and has been largely successful. It is a large castle, after all. He just smiles coldly at Sherlock and Sherlock feels a chill travel up his spine. 

At dinner, Sherlock walks in and Uther’s immediate pronouncement is “Arrest him. Trial is after I eat.” Sherlock utters a sharp cry of surprise as guards restrain and remove him from the room. John, at Uther’s side, has a pained look on his face.

Sherlock’s jury is the cold king Uther, who accepts minimal input from his son and Greg. It appears there were important defense plans taken from Uther’s private chambers last night, the same night Sherlock was gone and came back in the midmorning, so it obviously was Sherlock who took them and sold them to some enemy of the king.

Sherlock doesn’t know if anyone believes his anguished pleading. He looks at Uther, who is obviously unmoved, then at Greg and John, who simply look stony. He is convicted of treason and Anderson is one of the guards who take him to his cell. “It was only a matter of time,” he says bitterly before dumping Sherlock on the floor and locking him in place.

Sherlock doesn’t sleep much. He doesn’t get any visitors and his heart falls to his feet. Everyone is so willing to believe the worst of him. It is noon by the time Sherlock hears any sound. His stomach feels like it’s going to eat itself, as he only had that piece of bread the day before and nothing that day. It is John approaching, and Sherlock hides his face in shame. He’s expecting the worst, not for John to unlock his cell and softly say, “Sherlock, you can come out now.”

Sherlock stands on shaky legs and stumbles to his prince. “Oh Sherlock, they didn’t give you any food?” Sherlock shakes his head. “Or water?” Another shake. John presses the water flask he usually uses while he’s training into Sherlock’s hand. “Oi!” in a much louder, harsher voice. “Why were you starving Sherlock?” John questions Anderson and his companion, who for some reason are still standing watch over him apparently. 

“He’s guilty of treason, sir,” Anderson answered. “Form of coercing for information.”

“His sentence has been repealed. You will apologize to Sherlock and get him food from the royal kitchens. Bring it to my chambers.”

Anderson’s face folded in an unattractive manner as he bit out “Sorry.” “Sorry” echoed his companion.

Sherlock’s knees felt weak as he heard John behave like the knights’ commander. He attributed it to dehydration and fatigue. 

“Greg, Jim, Mary, four knights, and I were convinced of your innocence. We spent the whole night tearing the castle apart looking for the plans. Jim found them, wasn’t that sweet of him? Sweet of everyone?”

Sherlock knew this was part of some game he couldn’t fully see, but he appreciated that he had some friends. “Just tell me one thing,” John intones. “What were you actually doing last night?” 

“Playing my violin out in the woods,” Sherlock says softly.

“I’d love to hear you play sometime.”

And his heart fluttered as he touched John’s flask to his lips and drank John’s water with all of John’s attention focused on him.


	7. In Which Sherlock Offers Comfort

The next three years were filled with adventures and small mishaps and blips similar to what occurred in the first weeks at Camelot. Sherlock managed to keep his magic hidden from John, and also his love, as John seemed to follow after his father in believing magic was inherently evil. Luckily, John did not follow after his father on much else. John remembered the unicorn and was quick to offer mercy and consider peoples’ situations, but that was all he would do. If he considered and still disagreed, John could be as vicious as his father in his judgment. 

John was loyal, to his kingdom, to himself, to his knights, and to Sherlock (although never demonstrated as dramatically as with the unicorn). Sherlock did not think John would make the same decision now, after all, John being twenty years old now was closer to having the kingdom than three years ago and would probably consider it to have more worth than Sherlock. Sherlock was aware that John didn’t really have friends, that Sherlock was the closest thing to an arguable friend that John had. But kings didn’t pick friends over duty. That was the decision of a child.

Sherlock was resigned to his position at John’s side—always so close but never close enough, being able to bask in John and cause John to succeed but not able to see his face light up when Sherlock did something for him. John’s personality had matured, and so had Sherlock’s. Sherlock thought he orbited John and would forever, taking whatever of him John would give. Sherlock knew he would gladly live half a lie all his life if it meant seeing John every morning and night and being the closest friend he had.

It was at this time that Uther became ill. For contingency purposes, the logical choice of John obtaining the kingdom was confirmed, and unfortunately had to be used. Uther died. Sherlock, having much advanced in his medical studies, was by Greg’s side assisting him when Uther huffed his last breath. Although he was a strong king and the people appreciated and feared him, John was the only one who would really miss him.

“Let John in, Sherlock,” said Greg gently. Sherlock mutely did as he was told, not knowing how to ease John’s suffering. With this one man’s death, John had not only lost his only surviving parent, but now had the mantle of thousands of people on his shoulders. John entered the room, expecting to see his father already passed, Sherlock thought, but it was a different thing entirely to see the actual body. 

“No no please,” and John gripped his father’s wrist. Finding no pulse, he shuddered and his eyes watered. Then, Sherlock watched as John put on a front. His shoulders went back, his spine straightened, and his face became an expressionless mask. Uther’s wrist fell back on the bed and John spun around and walked straight out the door. 

Sherlock didn’t know what to do. He had expected John to cry a bit and then he would hold John to him. But he didn’t know who that emotionless John was. 

“Go after him,” Greg instructed. “He’s hurting a lot and can’t break down with anyone around. Anyone, except perhaps you. I hope you, because he needs someone. Go to him.”  
Sherlock went to John’s chambers and timidly knocked on the door. “Go away,” came a voice from within. It didn’t sound like John, it was too hoarse and muffled. John should never sound like that.

“My parents died too,” Sherlock began, thinking how much easier this would be if he could see John’s face. He wasn’t going to tell the whole truth, but some of this information was still close to his heart. “They-they came in the night, bandits.” Actually they were Uther’s knights coming to condemn his parents for sorcery, but as magic tended to run in families, it was best to not tell that part. “They took my father away first, and he screamed and cried for my mother. She was trying to defend herself and me. She locked me in a cupboard so they couldn’t find me. But I could still hear them-“ John opened the door and pulled Sherlock into the room by his shoulder. 

“How old were you?” John asked softly.

“Five,” exhaled Sherlock, barely a breath. 

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, one hand on his back and the other on the back of his neck. Sherlock relaxed in John’s embrace and whispered in his ear, “It gets better, John. The pain goes away.”

Sherlock felt like a terrible person as, so soon after speaking of his parents’ murders, he began to get an erection. This was the closest he had ever been to John, and his body responded to the love of his life. Not wanting John to know, he pulled back from that sweet hug even though he never wanted it to end and cursed his penis. John’s hand skirted most of his neck in the motion and Sherlock inwardly shuddered. John’s hands should always be on his person, on his shoulders, his neck, his face, his chest, his intimate areas.

Now there was their usual distance between them, until John said, “Stay with me a while, Sherlock. Anywhere.” John sat on his bed. Thinking sitting on John’s bed entirely too presumptuous (also a move that would make Operation Deflate Penis a failure with no hope whatsoever of success), Sherlock sat in a chair a fair distance from the bed. It seemed further talking was not what John wanted, and they sat in silence together. 

And it was there that Sherlock realized he was wrong. This was extremely intimate for John, allowing someone else into his grief, and even though they were not physically close, they were extremely close emotionally at that moment. If Sherlock dreamed hard enough, he thought he could see a tangible line from his heart to John’s, thin but strong and silently quivering.


	8. In Which Sherlock Suffers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the train to Angstville. Here we go...

John assumed the throne and the kingdom supported him after his father’s death. It was an easy succession, with John being the only possible heir and well-liked by the people. Soon after he became king, John and Sherlock were in John’s chambers getting ready for the day and John asked, “Sherlock, do you think it would be wise to marry soon?”

Sherlock felt his palms begin to sweat as he handled John’s vest. But he knew the answer he must give. “Yes, it would be wise. Reassure the people that the dynasty is secure, or will be soon.”

“And who do you think would be a good choice? A girl from a neighboring kingdom? Or I’ve also considered Mary. She’s been in the castle for years, I would call her a friend, and I think she would be a good queen.”

Sherlock had ignored Mary for years. It wasn’t difficult, James was the more noticeable one of the siblings. James still gave Sherlock the creeps, but that was no reason to discount his half-sister even if it would put James third in line for the throne. Sherlock would be there to protect John; the throne was secure. 

“If you feel love and affection for Mary, then I think she would be a good choice. But a princess of another kingdom would also be a wise political move,” Sherlock said haltingly. 

“I feel I could learn to love Mary. I certainly feel affection for her. Of course I would have to court her first, can’t just go popping the question, could I?”

“Of course not. A picnic tomorrow then?”

“You always know what I want, Sherlock. Sometimes I feel you’re the only one I can trust.”

Sherlock gave a gracious nod and pondered how John’s desires were as opaque as ever to him. For all the time they spent together, they didn’t have intimate conversations very often. A part of Sherlock wished they did and another part wanted to cease to exist every time one of them began because he could never say what he truly felt, in part because what he felt was always wrong in some way. It was wrong to want magic to be legal, it was wrong to think magic should be accepted and honed instead of feared, it was wrong to desire someone so much who wanted nothing to do with him, it was wrong to want a king to take interest in a servant instead of his own kingdom, it was wrong for Sherlock to want John to love him, even if it went against all that John was. He could use his magic to make John love him, but he could never do that to John. 

“And Sherlock,” Sherlock turned to face John again, “you can find someone too. Start a family. I would make them comfortable in the castle.”

“Thank you John.” Sherlock didn’t want anyone besides John.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Helping John court Mary was torture. Sherlock’s entire being felt wrong. Sometimes he was half tempted to check his chest for deep abrasions at the end of the day. He watched as John fell in love with Mary and she with him, partially through his efforts as John’s servant. 

John was excited one day and besides knowing this moment would come, Sherlock was still unprepared. “Sherlock, I’m going to propose to Mary. Could you get me roses and whatever other romantic stuff in the throne room tomorrow night? I want you there too.”

“Yes of course John.”

“Excellent. You’re the greatest friend I could ask for.”

Sherlock promptly went to the bathroom and vomited. 

Later that night, Sherlock broke down in tears in front of Greg. “Greg, he wants me there while he proposes, how could he he must know and this is a clear message—I’m choosing her, and you were never in the running I’m going to have to be there while he pours out his heart to her, and while she says yes, and while they have a moment, and while they kiss and oh hell I don’t think I can-“

“Shh, shh,” soothed Greg, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and gathering him into his chest so he could sob into his collar. “He’s not as cruel as all that, well he is, but never to you. He doesn’t mean to hurt you. He would never hurt you. Here, I’ll leave tonight so you can play your violin in peace.”

Sherlock continued to cry as he played. He had never played for John, it felt too intimate. It didn’t help that he was usually playing a song about John. The mournful vibrations reached Greg, who was on the other side of the door. His heart broke hearing Sherlock’s pain, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it. A tear slipped from Greg’s eye as Sherlock’s playing got more frantic and terrified. If dying inside had a soundtrack, he was hearing it. 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The throne room had bouquets of roses and ribbons, there was intimate lighting, but most of all there was John, looking apprehensive and yet happy as he fiddled with the ring. When Mary came in, John’s face lit up. John got down on one knee and said, “You are my strength, my light in the darkness. I would be honored if you would accept my hand in marriage and rule beside me.”

Sherlock watched with dead eyes but registered it wasn’t as impassioned as he imagined it would be. Mary had a small, soft smile on her face as she replied, “Yes, John.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock’s pain continued and worsened through planning the royal wedding and its eventual execution. Sherlock was sure he must have died multiple times, the pain was so great. He didn’t cry again, he just retreated into himself. His heart lay in pieces now. Anticipating and knowing it was to be broken didn’t help at all. 

He wasn’t a woman, he was a sorcerer, and he was an obnoxious, deficient arsehole. Even one of those problems would make him not good enough for John, but all three made him one of the worst candidates. Didn’t stop his heart from belonging, even in pieces, to the man who broke it.


	9. In Which Seeds are Sown

Sherlock was even busier being the king’s servant than the prince’s. Since his own work was usually so boring, he was able to think while doing it. If he could be himself but not look like himself, he could do a lot of secret things for John. Sherlock was not naïve enough to believe people would never want to come and attempt to kill the king, and the more provisions he had in place to prevent that, the better he could protect him. So Sherlock researched aging spells. 

The first time he cast one, he immediately looked in the mirror. He was not a particularly attractive old man, but then Sherlock couldn’t recall ever seeing an old man he would really call attractive. Besides, the plan was not to seduce John but to save him. The eighteen year old was surprised when his joints ached and he hated his long white beard. It went nearly to his knees, for crying out loud! Did old age always mean letting oneself go? On the plus side, he looked like the quintessential sorcerer, all he needed was, yes, a cane or walking stick. And bingo, Sherlock could now turn into an old man. He was about to take the potion for deaging about seventy years when the Greg’s door opened. 

There stood Mycroft, who at twenty-five looked like he had taken an aging spell too. His ginger hair was sparse on top and in the front, and he had a soft round belly. He even had a walking stick just like the one Sherlock held. 

“Mycroft. What could you possibly want now, its six years too late.”

“Put Emrys away and yes, I would like to stay for dinner.”

Sherlock didn’t know what an Emrys was, but proceeded to take the potion he still held. They ate what food Greg had left before he had gone to visit someone Sherlock didn’t remember, which Sherlock suspected had entirely too much to do with Mycroft’s visit. 

“Is this your first time as Emrys?” Mycroft asked.

Ah, Sherlock thought. Old man me is Emrys. But why? “Why am I not myself when I am old?”

“Because changing your face is the key to a lot of your future, Sherlock. I have taken pains to make people think you and Emrys are separate people, hence the different names. Wouldn’t do much good to change your face to change your identity and keep calling yourself Sherlock, now would it?”

Sherlock grudgingly accepted this logic. “Are you a seer or something, Mycroft?”

“Change some of your mannerisms too. Have you ever seen an old man jerk about like a teenager? Now, tell no one of Emrys. As long as no one knows of him and no one knows about you and John, you will be fine.”

“John and I don’t exist,” Sherlock interjected sadly.

Mycroft had a pitying look on his face. “That line you saw is important. Well, I must be off.”

After Mycroft’s departure he began laborious research on lines between people. He fell asleep having found nothing.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next morning Sherlock felt bitter. It was just like Mycroft to show up after six years with no explanation or apology, offer a few cryptic words that might have been advice, and then disappear into nothingness again. Sherlock did no more research into lines between people. 

Instead, he goes to John’s room to find him covered in sweat with his eyes barely open. Feeling his forehead results in a diagnosis—dangerously high fever. Screaming at the guards to call Greg, Sherlock drags out the bucket John usually bathes with. Mary appears at the door, and Sherlock hands her two buckets and asks her to fetch cold water. Sherlock hurries to the kitchen of the castle, where more buckets are, and fills as many as he can carry with cold water, bringing a handful of the kitchen staff with him carrying buckets of their own. When he returns to John’s chamber, Mary is there, with her two buckets added to the tub. She’s stroking John’s forehead, but he is entirely unresponsive to her. 

Greg comes in and has the kitchen staff all leave before Sherlock starts ripping off John’s pajamas. Mary eyes Sherlock out of the corner of her eye and Sherlock remembers, John’s wife should probably go about ripping off his clothes, not him. Mary continues where Sherlock left off, then Greg helps Sherlock place a nude John into his icy bath. Greg has wet some towels he puts on John’s face and neck.

“Just a high fever, my Queen,” Greg says. “Once it breaks, he should be fine.”

Four hours later, John’s fever had not broken. If anything, it had only climbed higher. No matter how many cold baths John had, cold towels on his face, poultices that Greg prepared, nothing seemed to work. Mary wouldn’t leave John’s side until Greg urged her to leave while he discussed what to do with Sherlock. 

“I must use magic, Greg.”

“I don’t think that’s wise, Sherlock. We don’t know what caused it.”

“Magic. I’m sure of it. I can sense it. And fevers don’t go on this long without breaking if they’re this high.”

“Sherlock…”

“Brain damage, Greg! What if he dies?”

“All right, let’s think first. How would the magic have gotten to him? Have you checked under the bed?”

“Yes.”

“All right. His food was prepared with Mary’s, and she’s fine. Then I gave him a bath, and then I helped him to bed.”

“The water. Let’s test the water.”

The water was contaminated with dragon urine. Upon contact with the substance, the body produced more and more heat until death by fever is accomplished. Dragons were one of the extinct magical species, Sherlock didn't know who would have access to an extinct species' urine, or why they would keep it around in the first place. Only the pump that was used for bathing was touched, the others were all fine. This was an assassination attempt. Only problem was, any number of people could have done it. Also, in effect, Sherlock made John almost die. He was the one who made the first bath that produced such an effect the night before, and he was the one who orchestrated a number of subsequent baths when the water was killing his love. 

Hoping he was right, Sherlock himself prepared a bath of icy water from a different pump, one normally used for drinking. He didn’t trust anyone to not take shortcuts and take water from the other pump. He and Greg transferred John to his hopefully life restoring bath. 

John’s fever broke less than an hour into his new bath. He was exhausted and cold and Sherlock placed John back in bed. John was utterly pliant in Sherlock’s arms, softly meeting his eyes and blinking at him.

Sherlock melted at John’s look and felt tears of relief prick his eyes. As John’s eyes closed, Mary came in to see her sleeping husband and Sherlock sitting vigil over him. 

“It’s so good to have him back, isn’t it?” she intoned. 

“Yes. Yes, it sure is,” Sherlock replied.


	10. In Which Sherlock Expands His Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow ended up with a short chapter today. Extremely loosely based on season 5, episode 4 of Merlin.

John was an excellent king. He made strong treaties with neighboring kingdoms because people both loved and feared him. He would never be the first to issue a blow, but if a blow was dealt a harsh punishment would follow. To call King John Pendragon soft and kind or militant and exacting would both be wrong, because he was all of the above. 

What John wasn’t was a liar. So when a princess of a neighboring kingdom came to call on John for help in rescuing her father and asked he come alone, Sherlock did not hesitate later that night to state that he thought John should not go alone. When “Mithian? I’ve not heard from Mithian for ages” was his response, Sherlock instantly was put on red alert. 

“All right. Just thought I saw her that’s all. I must have been mistaken,” Sherlock appeased.

“Yes, Sherlock. Get some rest, can’t have you mistaking my crown for my plate.”

Sherlock did no such resting. He was not mistaken. He could always trust his own senses, people did not think he was important enough to alter, whereas John was. Sherlock’s vigil on John’s room lasted for hours before John emerged, fully dressed with sword in hand. “Oh, so John knows how to dress himself, does he? Well then why does he make me to it for him? Just to look important?” Sherlock thought. As John left, Sherlock crept down the corridor after him. There was a candle burning in Mary’s room, but Sherlock was grateful for the light, as it allowed him to see when John took a sharp turn to the left. 

John finally stopped about a quarter mile outside the castle walls, where a figure stood. It was Mithian. 

Seeing her broke Sherlock’s heart. Did John not love Mary? Then why was he meeting other women at night, in the woods no less, all alone? 

To Sherlock’s profound relief, they did not greet each other as lovers would. 

“John, you came! My father’s right this way.” She started to lead John, and unknowingly Sherlock, through the woods. It was so dark Sherlock lost them, as he couldn’t very well follow immediately behind them. Sherlock despaired until he sensed a little part of himself that had an answer. After a small amount of difficulty he tapped into that part. He saw the woods before him, lit a touch better, and it was showing him a path in a somewhat dizzying, zooming fashion. Sherlock followed the path this part of his magic showed him until he reached a clearing.

The clearing reeked of bad intentions. Sherlock put his hand over his nose before realizing the smell originated not in his nose, but in his mind. Realizing imminent danger, Sherlock rushed through the path his magic outlined back into the woods until he was almost upon John and Mithian. He sensed a sniper and saw one up a small hill, aiming a crossbow at John. Sherlock watched in horror as the arrow released before he had time to do anything. Aiming his magic at a target moving as fast as the arrow was didn’t do much, so Sherlock did the next best thing and pushed John backwards. The air whooshed over his head as the arrow embedded itself in a nearby tree. 

It didn’t occur to him it was eerily reminiscent of the first time he had saved John’s life for hours, right then Sherlock watched as the sniper hurried away through the trees and John jumped back up to his feet. He turned on Mithian in a rage and clutched her arms. 

“They do have him. My father. I had to lead you here then he would set him free.”

“Who is he? Who is they?”

“Moriarty.”

“Who? What’s a Moriarty?”

“He’s dangerous, he has a network of people who follow him and serve him.”

“Let’s get your father now,” said John, more kindly than before, but still not very convincingly kind.

“No, no he’s dead. The sniper would have returned and relayed the news by now. There is no hope.”

Sherlock could see John was relieved by this. Frankly, so was Sherlock. He had no particular desire to see Mithian’s father restored to the throne, and Mithian would be better for Camelot’s sake as she would be indebted to John.

“Come back to Camelot at least,” John intoned. “I will have four knights accompany you back home in the morning.”

Sherlock covertly followed their return to the castle, though it wasn’t needed. No further attack on them came, which made Sherlock extremely uneasy. That meant another plan was already in place, or this Moriarty was smart enough to think of another, or patient enough to not lash out immediately after a plan folded. Sherlock felt it was all three, which brought dread to his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags proclaiming them both as dicks are there for a reason. Sherlock and John are not as nice as Merlin and Arthur. And not even a "sorry for your loss, Mithian" was told.


	11. In Which A Fire Rages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Includes elements of Sherlock Season 3 Episode 1

Sherlock did not dream often, but when he did it was usually about John. Rather than the raucous sexual encounters many his age dreamt, his dreams were about love and inspired safety in Sherlock. Sherlock was entirely consumed by John, John’s hips moving in a slow to and fro, as Sherlock lay on his back and stared into John’s eyes. He felt entirely flayed open to John’s gaze. John had opened his shell and was staring at the soft pink flesh within and holding the pearl. Sherlock wasn’t sure what the pearl was to John, whether his mind or his magic or his body or his heart, John could have it.

Sherlock was awakened by a knock at his door. Whoever it was sounded frantic, and Greg was also there, urging Sherlock to hurry. It was Mary at the door, showing Sherlock a scroll. “John always said you were clever, maybe you could solve this code—someone’s got him, someone’s got John!”

“Lucky guess, it actually is a code,” Sherlock thought. Sherlock threw on his clothes, uncaring for the moment about his modesty, and followed Mary out the door. The two of them were accompanied by four knights as Sherlock led the way to his king. Not wanting others to know he could follow John using his magic, he poured over the code and checked it against his magic’s sight. Two sources were always better than one, and besides, he had to keep his magic hidden. If he rode surely in the precise direction John was, it would be incredibly suspicious. 

Sherlock saw smoke about a half mile deeper into the woods, which was where his Sight placed John, and panicked, forcing his horse into a run. The knights and Mary, thankfully, had the same inclination and were barely behind him. 

Flames leaped towards the sky, and Sherlock knew, instinctively, that John was in the middle of the flames. Sherlock hurriedly wrapped his scarf around his lower face and started scattering pieces of wood. His hands were burning even through his gloves, but his heart’s clenching worry and panic made his hands take a far lesser priority. 

The knights also dove into the pile and scattered the wood. If they were not careful, they could start a forest fire, but Sherlock didn’t care. He heard a wheezing breath and clawed faster, not realizing he had torn his fingernail in pieces. 

“John!” he called.

A loud noise answered him, sounding like a throat that was too sore and burned to make vocalizations had just attempted the same. 

Sherlock saw John’s hair through the wood and pulled him out of the coffin-like box he had been in, the only thing that kept him from having been completely consumed, miraculously only having the one hole. In a feat of strength Sherlock did not think he could ever replicate, he heaved John’s body into his arms and carried him away from the flames. 

The knights helped Sherlock by fetching him water and cloths, but Sherlock knew John would mostly need rest and poultices, the ingredients for which were back at Greg’s.  
The way back was at a more sedate pace, and Sherlock finally began to feel pain in his arms and hands. They sported many burns, and one nail was just about gone. John had a large burn on his hip and a smaller one on his shoulder. He also needed to rest his throat and take some medicine for smoke inhalation. Sherlock glanced at Mary. Her face was expressionless. She had no wounds. The knights had no wounds because they had been wearing their armor, which included thick gloves. Mary had none at all, which meant she had not gone close to the fire at any time.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock healed John’s wounds a little. He couldn’t do too much or it would be suspicious but he could take a week or so off his healing time. For his own, since no one had seen his wounds very well, he was able to do more. He grew back his fingernail and completely healed about half his burns, letting the others heal as they would. 

John knew it was Sherlock who had saved him, the knights had told the story, and John had clapped him on the shoulder in thanks. As John got older and more accustomed to being a king, he was less affectionate with Sherlock, although that wasn’t the right word. They weren’t affectionate friends, they were intimate friends. And though Sherlock still knew everything that went on in John’s life, he didn’t feel like they were that connected. John was so far away. And at the same time, so close.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The fire was rumored to have been the work of Moriarty, but no further leads were found. James left the castle four days after the fire, but Mary urged everyone not to think anything of it. Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking of it. He knew the fire was an inside job, and seemed to have no real purpose that he could discern. As an assassination attempt, it was sloppy. You didn’t write a code to find the king as he slowly burned to death and give the code to the king’s wife. It was also worth thinking on how Mary got the code in the first place. Once the idea came to him, Sherlock couldn’t shake it. What if James was Moriarty and he had put magic on Mary to make her complacent? She was entirely different to the Mary John had proposed to. 

Where before she had been warm and softly adoring of John, now she didn’t talk to him much, she avoided him, made comments that could be construed as basically anything. The more Sherlock thought about it, the more certain he was. Mary had been awake during the Mithian episode, and she had ample time to poison the well that had caused John’s fever. She had also known it was a code she was handing Sherlock. It was Mary performing all these assassination attempts, at the unwilling hands of Moriarty, who had altered Mary’s will to make her comply.

Immediate research was required.


	12. In Which Tragedy Strikes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has elements from Merlin season 5 episode 9 and Sherlock season 3 episode 3.
> 
> I am really inordinately fond of this chapter.

Sherlock was convinced utterly of James Moriarty’s deceit and his hold on Mary. He looked up all the information he could on mind control and bending someone’s will to their own. There were many different ways to make a person compliant to a sorcerer’s will, but only one that could gift the victim their own free will. Sherlock went immediately to Greg once he found the information, wondering if he should tell John. 

“Greg, I know how to free Mary. She must go to a lake, the Cauldron of Arianrhod and be released by the Triple Goddess. She must enter the lake willingly or the spell will not work.”

“Yes, Sherlock, you must tell John. She is his wife, after all, you can’t go spiriting her away to strange places without his knowledge.”

“I shall go to him now.” And Sherlock went out and closed the door behind him. 

Sherlock turned around to meet Mary. Her face was blank, and she walked down the corridor. Sherlock followed her, knowing it was almost certain she had overheard. “It is to help you, Mary, to free you from James’s control!”

Mary turned and had a sad, conflicted look on her face. Sherlock drew closer. “Please, Mary, let me help you.”

“If you take one more step towards me, I will kill you,” Mary said robotically, but with a hint of glee. Her lips pulled back into a smirk eerily reminiscent of James’s, which distressed Sherlock. Believing Mary would be able to restrain James’s influence from making her kill, he leaned his weight forward in preparation for another step.

Instantly, Mary revealed the dagger in her hand and plunged it into Sherlock’s diaphragm. Above Sherlock’s grunt of surprise and pain, she inched up so she was almost touching him and breathed into his face, “It is Your Majesty, you worthless servant.” Mary pulled the dagger out of Sherlock’s flesh and walked calmly down the corridor, her dress making whispers of sound as she went.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock couldn’t breathe. He had grunted out what seemed to be his last breath, and in his mind, he was panicking. Mrs. Hudson appeared alongside himself, holding his hands so he would stop pulling out his hair. It was falling out in great clumps in his hands. She gripped his face and said sharply, “Calm down. Next batch of biscuits will be ready in five minutes.” Then, the smell of fresh biscuits was coming closer and closer and it made Sherlock vomit.

The act of vomiting made Sherlock fall, and when he landed he was on his face and Mycroft was there, smiling bemusedly at him. “You always were so stupid. I had to get away or I would drive myself insane. I don’t know what use this mind is of yours. You never use it.” Mycroft was so tall, so very tall. He looked down at his twelve year old coltish body, where Mycroft still had the thinning hair and plump stomach he did currently. 

Sherlock turned tail on his brother and ran, needing to find John. John would make him feel better. Instead, he met Mary, brandishing the dagger she had pulled out of him an instant before, in her wedding finery. The dagger was already bloody, but it didn’t stain her dress. She approached and stabbed him again, a bit higher this time. He could see his blood leaking out all over the floor, it was everywhere, oh fuck he was dying John’s wife had killed him a second time. “John,” Sherlock called as loud as he could, which at this point was a raspy whimper. 

And since this was his own mind, John answered to his call. He appeared, with skin golden and glowing, to scoop Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock was clutched to John’s chest as he knelt on the floor. “Sherlock,” John stated softly, so softly. “My beautiful Sherlock.” He laid his thumb on Sherlock’s cheekbone and looked at Sherlock so heartbreakingly sweetly.

He could see the thread connecting his chest to John’s again, it wasn’t as strong as it had been after Uther’s death, but it was there. Sherlock concentrated all his might on it and he could still barely see it. It was thinner, like it had been shredded, but he gripped it and held on, hoping it wouldn't break. As his last wish, Sherlock wanted to crawl inside John’s chest. He wanted to see John’s heart, and be contained in it. 

Sherlock felt his chest seize as he started to climb up the string. His heart was beating strangely, but Sherlock didn’t have enough strength to focus on that and on the string. He gripped it and it tore into his flesh so he wrapped his legs around it too and went up it achingly slowly. His brows were pulled together and he was gritting his teeth as he used every. last. bit. of strength he had. Sherlock reached the midpoint between their bodies but didn’t notice. John’s chest and the end of the string were still too far away. 

Sherlock finally brushed John’s armor with his fingertips. Then he was inside, and John was there. “Sherlock, I know how hard you worked to get here. I know how much you want it. But now is not the time. You need to go back to your body now.”

Feeling tears spring to his eyes at John’s rejection, he fell back into his body with an aching smack. His eyes opened, and he saw Greg’s concerned face leaning over him. “Of course, no John.” Sherlock thought and dropped off to sleep. 

John came rushing back carrying Greg’s medicine bag and a big wad of cloth to staunch the bleeding. “Is he alive?” John asked frantically.

“He just opened his eyes, and his pulse is still strong. Now he sleeps.”

“Oh Sherlock,” John said softly as Greg applied pressure to Sherlock’s torso. He gently brushed the curls off Sherlock’s face, some of his sweat on his fingertips. John curled his fingers together so he could never lose that sweat or the feel of Sherlock’s hair. “Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ......or maybe just Mary (from the chapter title)


	13. In Which They Go to the Lake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains elements from Merlin Season 5 Episode 9 and Sherlock Season 3 Episode 3.

Sherlock didn’t wake up again for several hours. Greg and John had moved Sherlock to his bed instead of the corridor. The bloodstains on the floor were cleaned numerous times, but there were still dark spots where Sherlock’s blood had fallen, then trickled. John’s and Greg’s hearts started in their chests whenever they saw the spots.

Greg said nothing to John about what Sherlock had said just before he had left and gotten stabbed. Greg suspected it was Mary who had stabbed him, but he couldn’t be sure. When Mary came to visit, Greg insisted on staying in the room to monitor the patient. Just in case it was her, he didn’t want to offer a chance to finish the job. Because really, the job should have been done. Greg had been a doctor for many years, and all the wounds of this nature he had ever seen were on corpses. Not only was it deep and at a sharp upward angle, it was in an extremely vital part of the body. All in all, if someone wanted to make a kill shot but wasn’t sure if they could penetrate the ribcage or the skull, they would do what had been done to Sherlock. 

John was furious. Sherlock had almost died, in the privacy of John’s own castle. Who could infiltrate Camelot’s most secure building and get deep enough into it to reach where Sherlock was? Why would they hurt him so badly? John sent out patrols all over the land to gather information. Sherlock had been unarmed, completely defenseless, and they had struck him down. John’s blood boiled. There would be no mercy. No mercy, no explanation, nothing that could excuse this.

John was by Sherlock’s side waiting for patrols to return in a few hours when Sherlock awoke again. Greg was nearby, but left and closed the door. John and Sherlock needed to talk, and under no circumstances would John ever harm Sherlock.

“Sherlock. How are you feeling?”

“N-not good. Oh fuck it hurts.”

“I know. I know it does. Greg has got you on something, I don’t remember what. He said it would ease the pain.”

“Ginger and feverfew.”

“Yeah, that. Sherlock, who hurt you?”

Sherlock grimaced. “You’re not going to like the answer.”

“Oh hell, is it someone I know?”

“For some time now, Mary has been under the control of James, who is Moriarty. It is she who is carrying out all these assassination attempts, unwillingly. She has less control over herself than I thought, as I thought she would be able to refrain from causing me physical harm. I was going to your chambers to tell you that I found a cure. If she goes to the Cauldron of Arianrhod and enters the lake willingly, a sorcerer can purge her of James’s influence.”

John leaned over Sherlock slightly to get a better look at his face. “You’re sure you know a sorcerer who can do such a thing?”

“I know one who is willing to try. He said it’s extremely powerful magic, almost heard of.”

“Then when you are well, we must go.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Healing the wound would have been a nearly impossible process naturally. Fortunately for Greg and Sherlock, the only people who were qualified enough to know such a thing was the two of them. Also, no one else knew how long of a healing time to expect. They knew without magic, the range was from eight months to forever, with never being the most likely.

Sherlock learned his magic also depended in part on his strength. Exhausted as he was, he could only manage small wonders of healing on his wound. This, however, had the effect of making him stronger and capable of more healing. 

John had been kept on permanent guard since Sherlock’s revelation. John could almost feel tangibly his wife’s knowledge of his discussion with Sherlock, and it made his skin feel too tight. Almost a month afterward, Sherlock was proclaimed well enough for the journey. When Sherlock told John, John gave a curt “Good” and a sharp nod of his head. “Of course he misses her,” Sherlock thought. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Getting Mary to come to the lake was a simple process of knocking her out and heaving her on horseback. She was well secured and four knights accompanied Sherlock and John. According to Sherlock, the sorcerer would be at the lake. 

Upon arrival at the lake, Sherlock slipped quietly into the trees to take his aging potion and emerge as Emrys. John looked for Sherlock, but Knight Henry said he had gone for a piss. As Emrys, looking the quintessential sorcerer, walked out from the trees, he went straight for Mary. “Willingly, remember. She must go willingly. Your Majesty, it is your task to make her enter willingly.”

As Mary awakened from the sedative, John gently cajoled, “Mary, for me. Go into the water for me. Remember how you loved me. I want you to go into the water for me. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes,” Mary agreed, and waded into the lake. 

Then Emrys began the incantation, expecting something to happen. As he neared the end, he knew something was wrong. “I’m not strong enough. I failed John. This magic is too far above me,” he thought. 

As he finished, Mary was laughing. “I don’t know where you found this one,” with a flailing arm motion at Emrys, “but he is hilarious! That ridiculous cane! Such power, but for the wrong side. I am not James’s underling, you plebeians. I am his equal. Have been for years. I am so sick of playing kind Mary, nice Mary, head over heels Mary. Now I can go back to James. And tell him what Emrys looks like.” She finished with a gleeful smile and exited the lake. She got on a horse and rode quickly away as everyone was rooted to the spot with shock. 

No one had seen that coming. And then her escape was so quick. No one could move. Emrys was the first to move, and retreated in shame to the shade where he could become Sherlock. When Sherlock came out of the trees, everyone present was so absorbed in their own minds they failed to notice he had not been there for the grand showdown.

The way back to the castle was silent. Even the horses walking seemed unbearably loud to Sherlock. Time seemed to move so slowly as he tried to get his brain around the idea. Mary wasn’t Mary, not really. 

What cause would be so important to take on a false identity or at least a false personality for years at a time and even get married because of it? And what was Sherlock supposed to do for John? He rode as silently and stoically as the rest, with his jaw set and his lips a thin line. His eyebrows were furrowed and his hands were in tight fists as they gripped the reins. 

Sherlock ached for him. He knew he would continue loving John if such a thing ever occurred with John in the lake. John still loved her, surely. Love was illogical and heartbreaking like that. John’s heart was breaking but couldn’t relinquish his love.

Sherlock could deal with that. If John still loved Mary after learning she was an intent murderess who was plotting his death, that just showed what a good man John was, how loyal and sweet and perfect. You couldn’t turn love on and off like a switch, and for a while John’s would still be on. And Sherlock could listen to John rant about their good times for years if it helped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, ginger and feverfew actually apparently can be used as pain relievers. Can't be as good as morphine though.
> 
> And yes, Knight Henry instead of Henry Knight from Sherlock Season 2 Episode 2--I snort at my own wordplay.
> 
> That was a climax of the story, now shit will continue hitting the fan.


	14. In Which Sherlock Makes a Decision

Upon returning to Camelot, everyone goes straight to bed. Sherlock sleeps the restless, dreamless sleep of someone who’s anticipating something with all their might. If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t know what he expects from the next day for the first time in years.

John is awake even before Sherlock comes to wake him up. He looks like Sherlock feels, like laundry being pressed through the wringer. Sherlock doesn’t know what to do when he sees John awake and hangs back in the doorway looking at the floor. John sighs and beckons Sherlock in. “Doesn’t look like you slept either. But it wasn’t that sorcerer’s fault Sherlock, he was strong enough to do what everyone thought needed to be done. I won’t pursue and execute him.”

This lifted a considerable weight off Sherlock’s shoulders. If Mary’s stunt had turned John further against magic he would lose a piece of himself. “Good.”

“You know, sometimes Sherlock, I think you’re the only one I can trust. And this is from before yesterday.”

Sherlock’s heart fluttered and just for a moment a golden line was present between their bodies. Sherlock was surprised to see it now, it seemed to show up at intimate times, but it was much stronger than the last time he had seen it when he was dying. It looked braided and multifaceted, resembling rope now. Sherlock was sure he was grinning like a loon.

Then he remembered himself. John had just lost his wife, his closest confidante, and John had praised him and Sherlock had gotten off on it. Who got off on their loved one’s grief and loneliness in the world? Sherlock quickly sobered and the line disappeared. “What are you drafting there?”

“Plans to defend Camelot. My instincts tell me war is coming, and we will be prepared to meet them.”

Apparently all John’s grieving had happened the night before. Now he was preparing plans to defeat his wife.

“Sherlock? Can you look these over and tell me if they are airtight?”

“Yes of course, John.” He read them and quickly saw their flaw. “They are probably the best we can do, however they are not airtight. Forces could come through these small towns here and blaze this trail through the country and reach the citadel.”

“Sherlock, you would be an excellent military general. Hopefully they are not as good as you.”

Sherlock knew they were as good as he and anticipated they were better. Also, he could never be a general. He needed John by his side, and he was no good with troops. Just with John. He knew, however, of one thing he could do. He could protect those towns because he knew that was right where Moriarty and Mary would go. 

As John prepared and stationed troops all day, Sherlock prepared for his nighttime journey. He couldn’t tell John. John had enough to worry about without adding his servant to the mix. Also, telling John would necessitate telling him how he intended to protect the towns and he couldn’t do that. He was pretty sure he knew how to protect them, but he would need advice to be sure.

He told Greg where he was going, who valiantly disapproved. 

“I can’t let those towns be defenseless, Greg!”

“Then have John station troops there! You know he would do what you asked!”

“I hope he takes my advice and utilizes it to make his own decisions. But I have to protect him most. It is my destiny to protect him, and I can’t protect him if he is right beside me with other troops right where they will be targeting! John would be out there in a heartbeat if he knew where they were attacking! And I can’t let him do that, Greg.”

“Talk to him.”

“Please, Greg. Let me die for the man I love. I have to die sometime, and I want it to be because John lives, and John thrives.”

Greg ceded. Sherlock left the castle for what he knew to be the last time under cover of darkness. He carried John’s words with him—John trusted him above all others. He might not have John’s love, but he had John’s trust, and that was a gift almost as priceless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but that was such a superb ending point.


	15. In Which John Makes a Decision

John woke before Sherlock was due to come in his chambers, just as he had yesterday. He laid restless in bed, waiting for Sherlock to come. He needed to see Sherlock first, on this the most important day yet in his reign. Oh fuck, if they had come back for Sherlock and actually killed him this time, John would go on a rampage. He would kill indiscriminately everyone who wasn’t in Camelot right now, he would avenge Sherlock.

Thinking of his wife stabbing Sherlock made John furious. Sherlock wasn’t good with weapons; he used his mind like the sharpest sword John had ever seen, but he didn’t carry a blade. He certainly didn’t have one wandering around the safety of John’s castle. She had intended to kill him. John had seen a fair bit of battle wounds in his time. That was a kill shot, and it was only because Sherlock was a genius that he survived. John couldn’t comprehend how Sherlock had done it. 

John hurried to see Greg. “Where is Sherlock?”

“He had some urgent family business.”

John’s heart sank. Sherlock had never spoken of his family other than when trying to comfort him after his father died. He didn’t even know if he was an only child. Sherlock had abandoned him. He never thought Sherlock would. Maybe he decided he didn’t want to be so close to all the carnage and went to some isolated village somewhere to hide.  
Suddenly, John remembered the string of villages Sherlock had spoken of. All the knights knew Sherlock, the only place he would be able to go without being recognized was somewhere in that string. And even if he weren’t, John wouldn’t mind dying in battle. He was a terrible king. He picked a murderess consorting against him for his wife, had somehow lost the confidence of his only friend, and was preparing for a war Camelot had no chance of winning. He didn’t know the force Moriarty had, but he had the feeling it was immense. Camelot didn’t have immense forces. John was content for the Pendragon line to die with him. It made him happy to not have spawned with Mary. 

John gave the word to go to the line of villages Sherlock had outlined. It was the only place he could think of to go. He couldn’t sit inside the safety of the citadel when he was condemning his forces to death, and without knowing what had happened to Sherlock.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock’s heart was heavy as he wandered through the forest in cover of darkness. It was hard to track Mycroft, but he suspected Mycroft had made it much easier than usual because he knew Sherlock would need him. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the thought. Probably being a seer was cooler than all the other powers of magic he had heard of. 

Sherlock found Mycroft in a concealed cottage. He was sitting in a rocking chair looking expectant. Sherlock found comfort in his usual displeasure at the sight of his brother. “Mycroft, I wish you to confirm something for me.”

“Yes, brother, combusting yourself and thus releasing all your magic as explosive fire is certainly possible. But really, Sherlock, must you always be so flashy? You didn’t research the lines, did you? Why do I bother to tell you anything at all?”

Sherlock felt the usual blend of humiliation, indignation, and sorrow at this conversation with Mycroft. “Mycroft,” he said softly, “I’m trying my best.” His voice began to shake. “And whatever I do lately, it’s wrong! You knew about Mary! Why did you let me be stabbed, why did you let me fight back to life only to be rejected, why did you let me try to fix Mary for John? I’ve tried so hard and everything is worse than it was before!”

Mycroft’s face was softer now. “Oh Sherlock. I know.” He kissed the crown of Sherlock’s head over the curls. “But all I can tell you is that John is always your answer.”

Sherlock moved back to the door. “And your loss would break my heart,” Mycroft said. Sherlock whipped around and stared in disbelief. “Go, your damsel in distress is in distress.” 

Sherlock left his brother without saying a word.

Sherlock was walking to the furthest village out in the chain, mulling over what Mycroft had said. Suddenly, a bag was placed over Sherlock’s head and the backs of his knees kicked. He fell sharply to his knees, bringing his arms up to take the bag off and defend himself. “Ah ah ah,” came the familiar cadence of James. He felt someone with damp hands grip his wrists and pull them to his back. 

Sherlock’s heart was thudding loudly in his ears. His throat was feeling stopped up and his limbs were heavy. “Just a mild sedative, darling.”

Sherlock’s stomach mustered a twist of revulsion before he passed out cold.


	16. In Which John Experiences a Tingle

Sherlock woke to James’s face staring at him, grinning, from scant centimeters away. His instinctual attempts to jerk backwards were fruitless, as he was already lying down, with hands tied and his body still weak. James laughed. “It’s taken you so long, Sherlock. I thought Emrys would be a formidable opponent, but no! He’s only you! It’s almost too easy.” He looked disappointed now. “You really should’ve gotten a different sorcerer for the lake farce, the whole thing was soooooo maudlin and obvious.”

Sherlock laid back, passive in his resistance. He tried to think how he could escape and go to John. John needed him. “Anyway, since you left your loverboy all alone, it’s easier to pick you off one by one.” He ran his hand over Sherlock’s chest. “Do you know what’s here?” Sherlock knew he could see the rope braid emerging from his chest, which frightened him. He had thought only he could see it. James saw Sherlock’s expression. 

“Ah, pity. Anyway, this is a Navawraim. Navawraims eat magic. You’re going to be all dry, and then what will you have to offer your precious John?”

James plopped the long, black worm deliberately over his diaphragm. Sherlock’s stab wound gave a twinge in memory, then registered sharp, fresh pain as the worm bit into the scar tissue and began to suck.

Tears ran down Sherlock’s face and pooled around his temples. James was right, if he didn’t have magic, how could he save John? When the Navawraim was done, James scooped it off Sherlock and smiled. “Well, I’ve got better things to do than watch you die slowly. No food, no water, nothing within reach. And no way to get out.” James turned and left, left to go hurt John.

John. Sherlock could see John. He and John were walking side by side along a forest path, laughing and beaming at each other. John’s hand was in Sherlock’s, fingers twined tightly together so there would be no accidental separation. Their hands were swaying as they walked and talked. Then, John disengaged his hand from Sherlock’s and spun to face him. He laid his hands on Sherlock’s back, his left supporting Sherlock’s shoulders and his right his spine. 

Sherlock watched as he answered the unspoken signal and allowed his body to go lax, utterly pliant except for a bit of muscle definition in his calves. Sherlock looked up at John, eyes half closed, so vulnerable, so trusting in John’s grip as he was gently laid back on a pile of leaves. Once Sherlock’s bottom was secure, John shifted to cradle the back of Sherlock’s head and lay him down entirely on his soft bed of leaves.

John’s face as he looked at Sherlock was astounding. The Sherlock in the leaves and the Sherlock left to die both looked in awe at John’s face as he gazed at Sherlock. His eyes were soft, his mouth relaxed and lips slightly parted.

The Sherlock bound on the floor let out a cry of longing. Why was his brain so cruel? “John will die,” Sherlock heard. “You’ll both die.”

Sherlock felt strength he didn’t have before pooling inside him. It felt like magical strength, but that couldn’t be. Sherlock directed his gaze at his bound hands and to his amazement, he could feel his irises flash gold and see his hands, free and useful. He immediately sat up and freed himself entirely.

Quickly, he set off for the string of villages, sipping an aging potion. John still didn’t know about his magic, but he knew about Emrys’s. Besides, if this didn’t work, Sherlock would just stay old and thus be closer to dying.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

John had woken that morning knowing he was going to die. He rallied his forces and prepared them as best he could for the horror of that day. They seemed much less despondent than he.

By the afternoon, John’s predictions were coming true. The dead were everywhere. John had had so many opponents that day and was growing weary. The carnage was continuous, with no end in sight until every last warrior from Camelot was dead and the immeasurable forces of James and Mary could press on. 

Suddenly, he felt a strong sense of being in peril. He knew Sherlock was in danger. It seemed like his body was telling him to relax, so he went quickly behind a tree and relaxed. The sudden sap of energy from him was draining. He fell back against the tree, foolishly leaving his chest wide open. 

John saw James approaching. “This is the end,” John thought. “But I gave Sherlock what he wanted, if that was even him.”

James opened with, “This is a special blade. Kills anything. There is no cure for a blow from Excalibur. Dragon’s breath forged it. Truly, dragons are marvelous creatures. Too bad you killed them all, could’ve made more blades like this.”

John did his very best, but James fought dirty. James was obviously fresh to the fight, whereas John had been there, actively engaged, all day. James gave one thrust to John’s stomach and twisted the blade a bit. When he pulled it out, there was a small piece of metal missing.

When James turned around, having dealt his death blow, John hurled his sword through James’s back. If he was going to die, he might as well do everyone a favor and kill James. James fell forward, flat on his face with a fine sword sticking from his back. “Underestimated me there, didn’t you, James?” John said. 

Just then, John heard an almighty crackle as lightning cascaded down from a hilltop. Illuminated by its glow was the old man who had tried to help Mary. John’s breath caught. That was what Sherlock had been doing! Trying to find this powerful sorcerer and convince him to join their cause! John had known Sherlock wouldn’t have just abandoned him!

John watched as the man, Emrys he believed Sherlock had said, unleashed lightning that flattened scores of opposing forces. The bodies were scorched and burned. The crack and sizzle of the lightning was awesome, majestic, fearsome. Dark clouds roiled overhead, threatening rain. John felt at peace, knowing Sherlock was probably fine. If Sherlock had enough sway with Emrys to make him come help Camelot, then Emrys wouldn’t have let him be hurt without healing him.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock felt righteous anger overtake him as he approached the battle. Whoever tried to kill his John got what was coming to them. He summoned dark clouds and used his staff to direct lightning at the enemy forces. He couldn’t see John, but he could do this. Emrys watched as the lightning killed thousands. Oh, this was taking too long. He wanted to see John. 

Sherlock directed lightning up to the clouds, which then released many bolts of lightning, flattening the enemy forces much quicker. He smiled. There was nary an enemy left. Now he could go find John. Relieved his plan had worked, he deaged himself again and set off looking through the thousands of men for his love, feeling euphoric.


	17. In Which Mary is Contrary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The big chapter. The first of the main resolution

Sherlock’s search was long, as he had to ask many knights where they had last seen the king. He couldn’t use his Sight, as that made his irises glow golden and still no one knew he was a sorcerer. Except all the dead soldiers of course. And wherever James and Mary had gone off to. 

Sherlock saw from afar a knight from Camelot drawing a sword out of a dead man’s back. He headed toward them, then recognized the figure. That wasn’t a knight at all! It was John!

Sherlock ran to him, calling his name. John raised his head and looked at Sherlock with weariness in his face. “Can you help me pull this out?”

Sherlock extracted John’s sword from the back of the man and handed it to John before realizing the dead man was James. “James? You killed James?”

“Yes, I did. And I’m not sorry.”

“I’m not either,” Sherlock said quickly. 

“But not before he got me.” To Sherlock’s horror, John lifted his hand away from his abdomen to reveal a blood soaked palm and a gash in his stomach. “James was saying something about his sword being special, Excalibur I think he called it. Made in a dragon’s breath. Dragons died out years ago, how would James have gotten one to breathe on a sword for him?”

“If it was Excalibur…John…”

“Was it true? Fuck. Certain death?”

“Don’t say that! Only if it fragmented…” Sherlock lifted the sword in James’s hand. He felt tears burn his eyes at the nick on the side. Sherlock dropped the sword and flung himself over John. He would’ve been embarrassed if he hadn’t been drowning in grief to be straddling John’s legs, holding John’s head and shoulders off the ground with tears rolling down his face. All the beautiful things he had seen, all his life preparing to save John and he failed, he couldn’t keep him safe. His throat was closing up and his chest was heaving.

Footsteps came up behind Sherlock, but Sherlock was too lost to hear them. John, who should have looked pitiful with six feet of lanky genius in his lap sobbing his eyes out, stoically keeping useless pressure on his stomach, looked hard and sinister all of a sudden as the footsteps approached. As Mary neared the pair of them, she picked up Excalibur off the floor and gave a sick smile. John grew stiff under Sherlock’s weight, with no free hand to press Sherlock to him. John mourned he would never get to hold Sherlock to his body, as this was the only time he had been close enough to him to try. 

John raised his sword at Mary in challenge. In answer, Mary said, “You could never kill your own wife.” Sherlock started at the sound of her voice, finally registering something was happening behind him. “This is the moment. At least I die close to John, with John. I don’t have to carry on without him, having failed in my destiny. Failed in my love,” Sherlock thought. 

Mary pressed the tip of Excalibur to the back of Sherlock’s neck. It nested between Sherlock’s vertebrae. “It would make a clean cut, near decapitation or total decapitation. Bisect the spine, sever the nerves, if she’s strong enough she could also slice through the trachea and esophagus,” Sherlock’s thoughts continued.

John’s arm gave an almighty jerk as he thrusted his sword through her ribcage. Excalibur fell to the ground, its soft thump seeming an almighty roar in Sherlock’s ears. John can’t have…she was his wife. He didn’t know he was so angry with her he would kill his own wife. John couldn’t have killed someone he still loved.

Sherlock grew still on John’s lap. John was resigned to Sherlock being disgusted with him for that, but he was dying anyway and now Sherlock was safe. What kind of man killed the woman he was supposed to love? Not that she had done much loving on her end, but still. 

“Just stay, Sherlock. Until I go. Please,” John whispered softly. Now that he had a hand free he could set a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The hand seemed at odds with their lower bodies, pressed together so tightly, but John didn’t want to disturb him. He had probably forgotten where he was to an extent. It’s not like Sherlock regularly flopped on peoples’ laps. And the hand desperately tried to reaffirm the friendship barrier Sherlock had wanted so desperately. John still remembered how Sherlock had scoffed at finding someone to settle down with.

It had been so hard, being so close to Sherlock and not being close enough. Like two magnets held a tiny space apart, John had felt so very tempted to close the distance between them so many times, but Sherlock didn’t want that. Sherlock could do friends. Well, he could have a friend, John. And John was lucky to have him. 

“And excellent job, by the way, convincing that sorcerer to come root for Camelot. Thank you.”

Sherlock looked up. “Of course I’ll stay. But why did James have such a clear route to you? Why are you over here in the trees instead of out in the open air?”

John looked down with shame on his face. “It makes no difference really, but I thought I felt a stab of pain and need and my body said to relax. So I exited the battlefield to find a tree to hide behind, and whatever it was took some of my energy so I fell back against the tree. This tree actually.” Then, softly and slurred together, “IThoughtItWasYou.”

Sherlock’s mind was going haywire again. John had thought of Sherlock in the middle of a battle, left it, and gave into the inkling that it was Sherlock that wanted a piece of him. 

“Why?”

“Felt like you, I guess. I really don’t have any evidence.”

Sherlock’s heart jumped. If John was dying, then there was so little time for John to be angry with him left. And besides, if John thought of him and put him before a battle for his kingdom, then maybe…

“John, I have some things to tell you.” He fidgeted on John’s lap a bit, clenching and unclenching his fists. He cast his eyes down and whispered, “Emrys is me. I am a sorcerer. He is me with an aging potion, please John.”

John was in shock. Sherlock was a sorcerer? For a moment he was angry with Sherlock for not telling him, but could he really blame him, with magic being punishable by death the way it was? And it could be proven many many times that Sherlock was not an enemy of Camelot. 

John’s silence was unnerving. “It was all for you! I kept you alive so you could become king, but now I’ve failed and you’re going to die and all the great things you were supposed to do you won’t be able to because I’m a failure!”

John raised the hand that used to hold his sword to Sherlock’s chin, to prop it up so he could reassure Sherlock better. “Shhhh, no. No, you did an excellent job. Three years is a plenty long time, I’m honored to have known you.”

Sherlock looked at the now visible connection with awe. It was thicker and more ornate now, still running between their chests but it was thinnest in the middle now. At its thinnest, the braid still endured, but at either end it was thicker. It swelled and had tiny tendrils running over John’s head and around his shoulders. John, seeing the connection for the first time, was confused. 

“Sherlock, are you casting a spell on me? What is this?”

Sherlock knew it was a bond between him and John. He also realized it wasn’t in its final form yet, and he desperately wanted to get it there. “This is a soul bond, John. It gets bigger and more complete when we get closer to this. John,” and Sherlock looked up into John’s eyes now with striking vulnerability. John was struck by Sherlock’s eyes. They were gorgeous. Sherlock couldn’t be going where it seemed like he was going. 

“John, I am completely in love with you. I am entirely yours. I don’t know much about soul bonds, but I do know my own soul and it yearns for you. Anything you wish of me, I will do.”  
 


	18. In Which John Trusts Sherlock

Everything had gone still and white. If Sherlock was in love with him, then John had three heads, the best weapon in battle was a jug of water, and this wound was not fatal. But perhaps, those couldn’t be compared. For as John stared at Sherlock, the glow in his face dulled and he began blinking rapidly to keep the tears in his eyes from falling. Sherlock just looked crushed and trying in vain to hide it. 

John’s whole body reacted. With a good part of his rapidly fading strength, John bent his knees a bit so Sherlock was leaning more on John’s chest and raised his hands, including the one keeping pressure on his stomach, to hold Sherlock. His relatively clean hand he lay, feather light, on Sherlock’s cheek and neck; his bloody hand an anchoring hold on Sherlock’s lower back. Sherlock submitted to these touches as John gathered his thoughts for a moment.

“Sherlock…I have loved you for…so long. If I…if I had known, I never would have gotten married.”

“But you needed an heir, John.”

“Fuck the kingdom, Sherlock! I just want you!”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and twin paths erupted down his cheeks. They quickly dripped off his chin and Sherlock smiled and laughed. 

Sherlock leaned close to John, hands on his chest and around John’s neck. “I am here, My King.”

Even as John knew what was about to happen, he still felt like he was floating away, though that could have been from blood loss or from Sherlock. His heart sped up as the gap between their lips shrank. Their eyes were open and as they got closer to each other than ever before, John felt overwhelmed by love and acceptance before their lips even met.  
Upon the touch of Sherlock’s plush lower lip to his, John heard a garbled sound that could have come from either of them. As they pressed more firmly, they still kissed watching each other. John would never have kissed anyone else with eyes open, but with Sherlock it seemed natural. They didn’t need to close their eyes because they didn’t need to hide.

Sherlock’s cheeks were damp, and John’s might have been, it was hard to tell with them touching faces so thoroughly. Their kiss broke when the bond reasserted itself between them. It shone golden and encompassed Sherlock entirely in its hold. It had tendrils curling around his head, around his shoulders, hands, legs, all over his body, but the majority were curled around his heart, so much so that the entire organ was a golden cloud.

Sherlock’s eyes shone golden as he looked at John, looking gorgeous and ethereal and John was glad he could have kissed Sherlock before he died.

As Sherlock felt John’s mouth caressing his, so gently, so tenderly, Sherlock’s mind became quiet until a beautiful solution presented itself. John’s heart had not cast him out. It had said now wasn’t the time. What better time than now? The energy he had felt while bound and helpless, that had been John’s. That meant the bond wasn’t just from Sherlock to John, from some extent it was also from John to Sherlock. It also meant that energy was transferrable between them. Sherlock could enter John’s heart and shield it using all his magic and energy, keeping John’s heart intact and alive.

To make the shard headed for John’s heart not actively work to kill John whatever way it could, it would need to be joined to the rest of the sword again. And to do that, he would need to take Excalibur with him into John’s heart. And he knew how to do this. Take the energy from the sword and direct it along with directing his own energy.

When their kiss stopped, Sherlock was exuberant. “John, do you trust me?” After all, it was no small feat to allow someone into your heart carrying the most deadly sword ever created. A brief summary of Sherlock’s intent followed.

“You know I do. Do whatever you like.”

Sherlock’s heart swelled. He focused hard on Excalibur to see its energy. It was off and discordant because it wasn’t whole. Sherlock brought that energy to himself and took it to his brain. He never thought he would be grateful for nearly dying at Mary’s hand, but he was. This way, he knew what could be done and how to get there.

Sherlock shimmied out along the bond in his mind, just as he had done a month ago, but this time he was holding Excalibur’s energy. It took longer than he would have liked to get halfway and hoped he would get there in time. 

He reached what he thought had been forever closed to him—John’s heart. A likeness of John stood in front of it, smiling and beckoning him in. 

Sherlock was momentarily overwhelmed by the interior of John’s heart. It was so full, and he saw himself everywhere. Hoping he would be able to spend more time here, he easily pushed his energy outward to surround John’s heart except for a small sliver right in front of him.

Sherlock was just in time, as the piece of Excalibur ripped through John’s heart right where Sherlock’s energy was purposely lacking. The change in his heart was immediate, it began to become filled with blood and darker. Sherlock only had moments. Flinging Excalibur’s energy at the piece, he contained the exploding energy as the two collided and channeled it into healing the hole in John’s heart. Excalibur was whole again, as was John’s heart. Sherlock’s strength was lagging, as he had never done so many high order spells in succession before, and gripped Excalibur’s energy tightly as he fell back into his own body.

Sherlock hurriedly pushed the energy out of himself and back into Excalibur. He looked with a fair bit of surprise to see that the sword was actually whole now. And John wasn’t dead. He was in pain, but he was also looking at Sherlock like he was the universe. “Amazing,” breathed John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that big scene was worth the wait.


	19. In Which Sherlock Trusts John

Because of their exhaustion, Sherlock and John fell asleep together under the tree. The surviving soldiers were looking for their king and clearing away the thousands of bodies, (most of which Sherlock made), but John wasn’t thinking of them anymore. He just laid completely down and pulled a half asleep Sherlock over his chest and wrapped him in his arms. 

They awoke in the morning, feeling marginally better and covered in filth from sleeping on the forest floor. John laughed at Sherlock’s curls, sticking every which way with dirt and leaves adding to the ridiculousness. They both awoke with partial erections, but agreed on the forest floor covered in dirt and blood wasn’t the best time. Then Sherlock turned and remarked, “And surrounded by dead bodies.”

John giggled and Sherlock joined in. “You put most of them there!”

Sherlock snorted. “Not the ones closest to us I didn’t.” Looking up to see John’s reaction, a bit apprehensive of being a bit insensitive about John’s wife even though he had said yesterday he didn’t want to marry her. And he had murdered her, after all. 

John was just looking at Sherlock fondly, eyes crinkled in mirth. “I love your sense of humor.”

Then John started giggling again, which turned into a full on belly laugh as he looked at Sherlock again. “Buggering fuck, I love you.”

Sherlock was widely grinning as he answered, “Later to the first, I love you too to the second.”

John’s eyes rolled skyward. “You trying to kill me? I can’t walk with this thing! It was all gone and you just brought it back.”

Sherlock smirked and scampered up, out of John’s reach. “Back to the castle now, I should think.”

“Back to the castle, he says,” John imitated. “Why is my servant giving me orders, Sherlock?”

“Because you’ll take them from me,” Sherlock said flippantly. “And you know I’m right.”

John huffed and the two started their journey, laughing and needling each other along the way.

When they got closer to the castle, though, Sherlock got more subdued. “John, if you don’t want others to know, I won’t tell anyone.”

John looked at Sherlock in surprise. “You are the best thing to have ever happened to me, why wouldn’t I want others to know?”

Sherlock cast his eyes down. “I’m a man, infertile with you. And I’m not particularly popular, and I’m a sorcerer, and people will say I-“

As Sherlock’s rant gained more speed, John pressed a finger over Sherlock’s mouth. “Stop. You would never put a spell on me against my will, let alone a love spell.”

“According to the law, I burn. Or hang,” Sherlock whispered. 

John suddenly remembered Sherlock’s parents. They had probably been sorcerers too, to have created someone as magically powerful as Sherlock. He had never heard of someone who equaled Sherlock’s power. “Your parents…”

Sherlock winced. “I’m sorry I lied.”

“Don’t be. I understand.” John gathered Sherlock to his chest. “Trust me, the people won’t hurt you. I will change the laws. I am the king, after all. They won’t lay a finger on you.”

“Okay.”

John’s reception in Camelot was overwhelming. Everyone wanted to congratulate him and see him, but as many of the soldiers had still not returned, busy burying the dead, John could conceivably put them off. He did, and went with Sherlock to draft new laws.

When the soldiers returned, John threw a banquet where he presented the new laws regarding magic. The people were shocked, but did not turn on him as Sherlock had feared. 

Then, John stood and walked over to him, grasping his hand there in front of everyone.

“And it is Sherlock who has changed my views on magic. This is the sorcerer who won the war and my heir should anything happen to me.”

Sherlock’s head whipped to face John. John gave him a look that said later so Sherlock quietly smiled while the people cheered for him and nodded acknowledgment of John’s statement.

After the banquet, Sherlock was sitting on John’s bed fiddling with his fingers. “I am your heir? But I cannot produce a dynasty, I am gay.”

John sat by Sherlock. “And I’m bisexual. But more importantly, I am utterly smitten with you, and if you think for one second you are not getting all the same rights my queen would get, you’ve got another thing coming.” John delicately kissed Sherlock’s forehead.


	20. In Which They Are Happy

John continued to clasp Sherlock’s hand as they walked through the castle, until they reached John’s chamber door. Then, he released it to fumble with his keys. “I’m going to get one of these made for you too. Unless you object, I’m not counting on having separate bedrooms.” 

Sherlock’s face glowed. “No. No objections.”

Sherlock held John’s gaze as they walked into their bedroom. “John, if you’re not ready, tell me. But that look you’re giving me gets interpreted in my head as you having plans for me.”

“Oh, you gorgeous thing. I have so many plans for you. I want to put my mouth on you and kiss and suck you until you wake up the guards.”

“Yes, John. And then I’ll suck your gorgeous cock until you scream and make them put cotton in their ears.”

John laid a kiss on Sherlock’s lips, hard at first, but then it turned soft and hesitant like their first kiss. “Actually, is it okay if we go a bit slower this time?”

“Yeah. I’ve-I’ve waited for you so long” Sherlock stuttered “I’m a bit overwhelmed already.”

John led Sherlock back to their huge bed and Sherlock lay on his back on it, scooting up awkwardly toward the pillows. Once Sherlock’s curls sprawled themselves all over the pillow, John’s eyes got even softer, if that was possible. 

“Sherlock…you’re beautiful beyond words. I would be happy to watch you until the end of my days.”

John crawled up after Sherlock, gently stroking the side of Sherlock’s face. “And your face, your eyes…they show so much love I want to cry.”

“You’re not allowed to cry,” Sherlock answered, his voice gone all nasally. “You’ll make me cry.”

“Looks like you’re already most of the way there, love.”

And tears spilled from Sherlock’s eyes, which made tears spill from John’s eyes. Both had their hands on the other’s cheeks, wiping away tears with their thumbs. 

John’s eyelashes were wet and clumped, and Sherlock gripped John’s face and kissed his crying eyes until John moved to kiss Sherlock’s mouth. They kissed a long while, there, tears and snot smearing all over their faces, swallowing each other’s breaths. 

“Did you still want to?” questioned Sherlock.

“Yeah. Yeah I do. Just got a bit sidetracked.”

And John uncoiled Sherlock’s scarf from around his neck, stroking the sensitive flesh underneath. Sherlock closed his eyes and elongated his neck as John’s hands danced over his throat. 

The rest of the undressing was slow and careful as well, filled with appreciative caresses. The intimacy was still so close to overwhelming they had to go slow and let it build a hair’s breadth at a time. They were also compelled to let each other know how much they were loved, whether it was the scar on Sherlock’s chest, which was kissed for long minutes and cried over again by John or the soft belly John had no matter how hard the muscles on his chest and arms were, which was summarily caressed and rubbed until John loved how Sherlock looked at it, if not the cause thereof himself.

As their slow grinding reached for the crescendo, John gazed into Sherlock’s eyes as Sherlock’s legs twitched around his hips. The intimacy was complete when they climaxed, hiding nothing from their partner. It was making love, indeed.

John held Sherlock as he slept and for the first time in ages, looked forward to the new day.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

With Sherlock at his side, John was able to be the greatest king Camelot had ever known. He had a peaceful reign with plenty of food and happy subjects. 

One thing they did notice, though, was that they were barely aging. Ten years after having confessed their love and they looked almost exactly the same. 

Sherlock looked into this phenomenon, and had to end up asking Mycroft. Mycroft seemed to have taken on Sherlock’s, John’s, and his own years. “Brother, soul bonds make a complete soul. Most people do not have someone they could form a soul bond with but those that do mean they line up perfectly and make a complete entity. And what do we know about complete entities, Sherlock?”

Sherlock thought of completing Excalibur all those years ago. “They exist at a lower energy, and thus are effectively immortal. They also have greater power.”

The bond between John and Sherlock remained strong throughout. After fifty years of rule, John appointed a successor and they lived together in a cave, basking in each other’s company. 

“Until the end of my days, my love,” John promised as they set up home in the cave, all alone at last.

“Until the end of my days,” Sherlock promised back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is over! I have enjoyed writing a longer story, though I'm not sure there will be another any time soon.


End file.
